By Kimber Annie

 

Gently swinging. Quietly creaking. Back and forth. Back and forth. Here I sit. Here I listen. Listening to the music of the front porch swing.

The weathered wood all laced with stains creaks clearly. It tells of cold snow, warm hugs, and hot summer nights. It tattles of spilled lemonade, talks of tipped tea cups, and shares of precious tears. This is a sacred place. A place where conversation and emotion grace the air. A place where dreams are free to dance. A place where finding oneself is possible.

Gently swinging. Quietly creaking. I keep listening to the music of the front porch swing.

I hear it speak of hands. Many hands. Large hands. Little hands. Smooth hands. Wrinkled hands. Muddy hands. Gloved hands. Helping hands. Hands in love. It is here I fold my hands, and it is here I talk to God. He holds my hands, and it is here He talks to me.

Gently swinging. Quietly creaking. Back and forth. Back and forth. Here I sit. Here I listen. Listening to the music of the front porch swing.

 

Kimber Annie is a published poet with work in over 30 books.   You can read more on her website Kimberannie.com.

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